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20. "I got not it by sea, I got it by land,

And I got it, madam, out of your own hand." 21. "O I'll cast off my gowns of brown, And beg wi you frae town to town. 22. "O I'll cast off my gowns of red,

And I'll beg wi you to win my bread." 23. "Ye needna cast off your gowns of brown For I'll make you lady o many a town

24. "Ye needna cast off your gowns o red. It's only a sham, the begging o my bread." 50

THOMAS RYMER

1. True Thomas lay oer yond grassy bank
And he beheld a ladie gay,

A ladie that was brisk and bold,
Come riding oer the fernie brae.1

2. Her skirt was of the grass-green silk,
Her mantle of the velvet fine,
At ilka tett of her horse's mane
Hung fifty silver bells and nine.

3. True Thomas he took off his hat
And bowed him low down till his knee: ΙΟ
"All hail, thou mighty Queen of Heaven!
For your peer on earth I never did see."

4. "O no, O no, True Thomas," she says,
"That name does not belong to me;

I am but the queen of fair Elfland,
And I'm come here for to visit thee.

5. ["Harp and carp," Thomas," she said,
"Harp and carp along wi me;
But if ye dare to kiss my lips,
Sure of your bodie I will be."

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THE BEGINNING OF THE RENAISSANCE

SIR THOMAS WYATT (1503-1542)

A RENOUNCING OF LOVE Farewell, Love, and all thy laws forever! Thy baited hooks shall tangle me no more: Senec and Plato call me from thy lore To perfect wealth my wit for to endeavour. In blind error when I did persever, Thy sharp repulse, that pricketh aye so sore, Taught me in trifles that I set no store; But 'scaped forth thence since, liberty is lever.1 Therefore, farewell! go trouble younger hearts, And in me claim no more authority. With idle youth go use thy property, And thereon spend thy many brittle darts; For hitherto though I have lost my time, Me list no longer rotten boughs to climb.

ΙΟ

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THE LOVER COMPLAINETH THE UNKIND-
NESS OF HIS LOVE

My lute, awake, perform the last
Labour that thou and I shall waste,
And end that I have now begun.
And when this song is sung and past,
My lute, be still, for I have done.

As to be heard where ear is none,
As lead to grave in marble stone,
My song may pierce her heart as soon.
Should we then sigh, or sing, or moan?
No, no, my lute, for I have done.

The rocks do not so cruelly
Repulse the waves continually,
As she my suit and affection;
So that I am past remedy,
Whereby my lute and I have done.

Proud of the spoil that thou hast got
'Of simple hearts through Lovës shot,
By whom unkind thou hast them won,
Think not he hath his bow forgot,
Although my lute and I have done.

Vengeance shall fall on thy disdain
That makest but game on earnest pain.
Think not alone under the sun
Unquit to cause thy lovers plain,'
Although my lute and I have done.

May chance thee lie withered and old
In winter nights that are so cold,
Plaining in vain unto the moon;
Thy wishes then dare not be told.
Care then who list, for I have done.

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ΤΟ

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A DESCRIPTION OF SUCH A ONE AS HE
WOULD LOVE

A face that should content me wondrous well,
Should not be fair, but lovely to behold,
Of lively look, all grief for to repell,
With right good grace, so would I that it should
Speak without word, such words as none can tell;
The tress also should be of crisped gold.
With wit and these perchance I might be tried,
And knit again with knot that should not slide.

OF THE MEAN AND SURE ESTATE

WRITTEN TO JOHN POINS

My mother's maids, when they did sew and spin,
They sang sometime a song of the field mouse
That, for because her livelihood was but thin,
Would needs go seek her townish sister's house.
She thought herself endured too much pain;
The stormy blasts her cave so sore did souse
That when the furrows swimmed with the rain,
She must lie cold and wet in sorry plight;
And worse than that, bare meat there did remain
To comfort her when she her house had dight; 10
Sometime a barly corn; sometime a bean,
For which she laboured hard both day and night
In harvest time whilst she might go and glean;
And where store' was stroyed with the flood,
Then welaway! for she undone was clean.
Then was she fain to take instead of food
Sleep, if she might, her hunger to beguile.

"My sister," quoth she, “hath a living good,
And hence from me she dwelleth not a mile.
In cold and storm she lieth warm and dry
In bed of down, the dirt doth not defile
Her tender foot, she laboureth not as I.
Richly she feedeth and at the richman's cost,
And for her meat she needs not crave nor cry.
By sea, by land, of the delicates, the most
Her cater' seeks and spareth for no peril,

1 abundance 2 destroyed 3 caterer

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She feedeth on boiled bacon, meat and roast, And hath thereof neither charge nor travail; And when she list, the liquor of the grape Doth glad her heart till that her belly swell."

And at this journey she maketh but a jape;1 So forth she goeth, trusting of all this wealth With her sister her part so for to shape, That if she might keep herself in health, To live a lady while her life doth last.

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And to the door now is she come by stealth, And with her foot anon she scrapeth full fast. Th' other for fear durst not well scarce appear, Of every noise so was the wretch aghast. At last she asked softly who was there, And in her language as well as she could. "Peep!" quoth the other sister, "I am here." "Peace," quoth the town mouse, "why speakest thou so loud?"

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And by the hand she took her fair and well. "Welcome," quoth she, "my sister, by the Rood!"

She feasted her, that joy it was to tell

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The fare they had; they drank the wine so clear,
And as to purpose now and then it fell,
She cheered her with "Ho, sister, what cheer!"
Amid this joy befell a sorry chance,
That, welaway! the stranger bought full dear
The fare she had, for, as she looks askance,
Under a stool she spied two steaming 2 eyes
In a round head with sharp ears. In France
Was never mouse so fear'd, for, though unwise
Had not i-seen such a beast before,
Yet had nature taught her after her guise
To know her foe and dread him evermore.
The towney mouse fled, she knew whither to go;
Th' other had no shift, but wanders sore
Feard of her life. At home she wished her tho,3
And to the door, alas! as she did skip,
The Heaven it would, lo! and eke her chance

was so,

At the threshold her silly foot did trip;

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And ere she might recover it again,
The traitor cat had caught her by the hip,
And made her there against her will remain,
That had forgotten her poor surety and rest
For seeming wealth wherein she thought to reign.
Alas, my Poines, how men do seek the best
And find the worst by error as they stray!
And no marvel; when sight is so oppressed,
And blind the guide, anon out of the way
Goeth guide and all in seeking quiet life.
O wretched minds, there is no gold that may
Grant that ye seek; no war; no peace; no strife.
No, no, although thy head were hooped with gold,

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A small thing it is that may thy mind appease.
None of ye all there is that is so mad
To seek grapes upon brambles or briars;
Nor none, I trow, that hath his wit so bad
To set his hay1 for conies over rivers,
Nor ye set not a drag-net for an hare;
And yet the thing that most is your desire
Ye do mistake with more travail and care.
Make plain thine heart, that it be not knotted
With hope or dread, and see thy will be bare
From all effects whom vice hath ever spotted.
Thyself content with that is thee assigned,
And use it well that is to thee allotted.
Then seek no more out of thyself to find
The thing that thou hast sought so long before,
For thou shalt feel it sitting in thy mind.
Mad, if ye list to continue your sore,
Let present pass and gape on time to come,
And dip yourself in travail more and more.
Henceforth, my Poines, this shall be all and
some,

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HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY (1517-1547)

DESCRIPTION OF THE RESTLESS STATE
OF A LOVER

The sun hath twice brought forth his tender green
And clad the earth in lively lustiness,
Once have the winds the trees despoiled clean,
And new again begins their cruelness,
Since I have hid under my breast the harm
That never shall recover healthfulness.
The winter's hurt recovers with the warm,
The parched green restored is with the shade.
What warmth, alas! may serve for to disarm 9
The frozen heart that mine in flame hath made?
2 rabbits

1

snare

What cold again is able to restore

My fresh green years, that wither thus and fade?

Alas, I see, nothing hath hurt so sore,

But time in time reduceth a return;

In time my harm increaseth more and more,
And seems to have my cure always in scorn.
Strange kinds of death, in life that I do try,
At hand to melt, far off in flame to burn;
And like as time list to my cure apply,
So doth each place my comfort clean refuse.
All thing alive that seeth the heavens with eye
With cloak of night may cover and excuse
Itself from travail of the day's unrest,
Save I, alas! against all others' use,
That then stir up the torments of my breast,
And curse each star as causer of my fate.
And when the sun hath eke the dark oppresst,
And brought the day, it doth nothing abate
The travails of mine endless smart and pain;
For then, as one that hath the light in hate,
I wish for night, more covertly to plain,'
And me withdraw from every haunted place,
Lest by my cheer my chance appear too plain.
And in my mind I measure pace by pace,
To seek the place where I myself had lost,
That day that I was tangled in the lace,
In seeming slack, that knitteth ever most.
But never yet the travail of my thought
Of better state could catch a cause to boast;
For if I found, sometime that I have sought,
Those stars by whom I trusted of the port,
My sails do fall, and I advance right nought,
As anchored fast, my spirits do all resort
To stand agazed, and sink in more and more
The deadly harm which she doth take in sport.
Lo, if I seek, how I do find my sore!
And if I flee I carry with me still

The venomed shaft, which doth his force restore
By haste of flight, and I may plain my fill
Unto myself, unless this careful song
Print in your heart some parcel of my teen; 2
For I, alas! in silence all too long
Of mine old hurt yet feel the wound but green.
Rue on my life; or else your cruel wrong
Shall well appear, and by my death be seen!

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